


Subtract the Difference

by harcourt



Series: Stark Business Empire [6]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Consent Issues, Gen, Past Abuse, non-con elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-11-01 20:54:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10929867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harcourt/pseuds/harcourt
Summary: "Show me what you've got, JARVIS," he says, when he's got a drink and is settled in at his desk, behind his computer, tie loosened and jacket shrugged off.Phil does some research.





	Subtract the Difference

Going back to New York feels like an escape--a vacation from their vacation--but an escape that seems to have stabilized Tony. The chaos of the Vegas attack has either forced him to pull it together, or else energized him, because he seems cheerful and alert, dressed in a bathrobe but showered, and poking at things on his tablet, still lazily sipping coffee even though it's well past noon. Pepper, so far, seems happy to leave him there so she can put her own feet up, or maybe sleep off the trip. Phil hasn't seen her since they got back, right after which they'd all crashed into bed, with the exception of Steve who had probably gone to stalk the building's perimeter and double check security.

The building is still quiet. Bruce sticking to his work and appearing mostly to confer with Tony, passing notes back and forth on tablets and napkins and notebook pages, their math sprawling out so that they have to fit their notes together like puzzle pieces. Phil's not sure what they're working on, but it's taking over the kitchen counters. It also means that they're occupied and that Phil has time to sneak back to his apartment and call up JARVIS someplace where he won't be disturbed and where no one will witness any lapses in professionalism. 

"Show me what you've got, JARVIS," he says, when he's got a drink and is settled in at his desk, behind his computer, tie loosened and jacket shrugged off, hung over the back of his couch in the next room over. "But give it to me in a small window." That he can cover with his hand and watch through his fingers, if he has to.

JARVIS gives him a list instead. A mix of still images and video. It's not the largest collection of files Phil's ever seen, but if JARVIS can dig up a couple dozen examples on limited notice, then he's skimming off the top of what could be out there. Just touching on Clint's time in retraining centers.

Phil takes a breath, exhales, then takes a slug of whiskey. Then he double taps the first file icon with a finger.

It's not good photography. Under-lit against a glaring background, and taken at an awkward angle, with the grainy image resolution of a sub-standard camera, digital noise creating an annoying pixelated blur along the edges of a bright space behind what is still identifiably Clint's face.

The next two images show that it's part of a series. Phil's not sure what's going on in them, because they're just indefinite close-ups of Clint, backlit in what seems to be a stark room, set up in the sterile white Phil associates with labs or medical installations. Maybe with SHIELD's decontamination unit. Mostly, the photos are grim in that they exist at all.

Phil skips down the list to the first video, and hesitates, pausing to look over his shoulder before he hits play, like he thinks Clint or Tony might have materialized unannounced in his home office to look over his shoulder. Then he shrugs the unease off, and taps the video window.

It's set up better than the photos had been. Taken at a low angle where Phil can see Clint's head and shoulders and enough floor to know that Clint had been close to the ground. He's wearing what looks like a t-shirt, white and unadorned, and his head is resting on someone's knee, eyes unfocused from what Phil is pretty sure is a solid dose of sedation. Sporadic rapid blinking means he's trying to rally, but the attempts aren't very successful. His head rolls when he tries to lift it, but when he almost slides it off the knee, a hand comes into frame to steady him, resting in his hair and rubbing gently, making reassuring motions but keeping him in place.

"Black tags aren't worth much," a female voice scoffs, clearly in the middle of a conversation and oblivious to the annoyed shushing of what Phil assumes is the film-maker. She's doesn't seem to care that her voice is being caught on what is clearly illegal tape. "It's a waste. Look at him." She shifts Clint's head a bit, and he grumbles in response, the rebellion softened by drugs into sleepy, grumpy protest. "You don't think someone would pay for this one?"

The response is too far from the microphone for Phil to make out. Just a garble of sound. A negation, if Phil's reading the intonation right.

The woman scoffs, petting Clint like she's quieting a fussy child. Her fingers are elegant, nails tidily painted and creating spots of bright color in the washed-out lighting of the shot. "No. You're not dangerous, are you?" she asks Clint. Phil can hear the smile in her voice. She almost sounds fond. There's another protest from out-of-frame. The woman says, "He can learn. What's the point if we're going to black tag every challenge that comes our way?" Her hand moves to rub Clint's neck. "I thought we were supposed to salvage worthwhile property." Her tone is approving. It's clear she thinks Clint is both worthwhile and salvageable. Clint sighs and tries to pull himself together again, this time almost freeing himself from the restraining hand before he's pulled back in place. 

"Easy," the voice tells him, then, directed away. "He's had training. How many luxury items do you get through here? You throw him away, it's years of wasted--" There's an annoyed sigh, and the video cuts. Phil lets his breath out and takes another slug of whiskey, then rubs a hand over his face and clicks the next video file, bringing up a close-up of Clint, wide-eyed and looking around in what looks like panic, following movement that Phil can't see. He scrubs through the timeline to search for nasty surprises, but there aren't any, other than Clint's face scrunching at one point in apparent pained reaction. Phil clicks away, starts to get up, then sits back down and finishes the rest of his drink, unsettled despite the lack of anything graphic.

"I guess you can't tell me if they get creepier," he says, raising his voice to direct the question at JARVIS.

"I cannot quantify a subjective reaction, Agent Coulson. Perhaps I can sort by content?"

"Would that make me a cheater?" Phil asks, and hits the next file. A photo that's doesn't seem to include Clint at all, or at least not in an obvious way, showing groups engaged  
in hard labor, loading and hauling and Phil's not sure what else. It's harsh, but not creepy in the way the last video had been. Then there's a picture of Clint taking something from someone's hand, mouth closed around a man's fingers, nose scrunched in obvious distaste, with none of the ease he'd shown with Tony. There's a cut on his lip, puffy with swelling, and dusky smudges where Phil's sure someone had dug their thumb into Clint's jaw joint in an effort to make him open his mouth.

Phil deletes it, then tells JARVIS, "Make sure that's gone for good, please," then gets up to refill his glass, impatiently twisting the ice cube trays and ending up dropping ice on the kitchen floor. "You didn't see that," he says to JARVIS, gathering the ice up to throw the pieces into the sink, not bothering to refill the tray. Just leaving it out on the counter and pouring the whiskey straight, before taking a slug and heading back to the freezer for a new tray. One that he hasn't overfilled and caused all the cubes to stick together.

"Of course, Agent Coulson."

The ice clinks in his glass. Phil swirls them around, and takes a steadying breath. He's not naive enough to think that there isn't a steady stream of untoward material coming out of training houses and rehabilitation centers, but seeing it is still unsettling. He's not sure why, or what he'd expected. Maybe something more explicit or graphically violent, but the rest of the files, when he goes back to them, are in the same vein of calm but invasive control. The sort of recording that could only come from a training facility, maybe. There's a photo of a bunkroom--Phil's not sure what could possibly be attractive or exciting about it. It looks as spartan as a barracks, bodies sleeping under blankets, lights dim--then another video that might or might not be Clint, taken in a dark room, showing empty floor with only part of a bare foot in frame, overlaid with soft hurt noises and someone talking in the background, some kind of matter-of-fact discussion that never becomes intelligible and might not be about the owner of the foot at all. It sounds detached enough that it could even be talking about changing the light bulbs, or about paperwork. Phil clicks away, and goes quickly through the rest, not playing the videos through unless they're obviously Clint, and then forwarding just far enough to get an idea of the content before moving on. There's one in what looks like a gym, with the woman's voice again, giving directions, and then one with the camera moving along a catwalk, overhead a shower room. It cuts out quickly, skipping to what could almost be a medical examination room, except that Phil is sure that it's not. A man is explaining something to Clint and two others, all three of them undressed, Clint looking unimpressed, but in the bland smoothed-over way Phil's learned to identify and thought he'd picked up from Bruce. His gaze keeps flicking past the camera, and his chest is rising and falling too fast, giving away that he's not as calm as he's trying to look. 

There's several more minutes on the video. Phil stops it and clears the player from his desktop, then hesitates, tempted to delete the whole folder. The last photo he opens is just Clint's face turned up, the same woman's hands from earlier on either side of it, crisp sleeves around her wrists while Clint looks like he's been dragged through a wringer, hair damp and half standing, half stuck to his head, mouth soft and half open. His hand is visible, loosely curled, fingers clinging to the fabric of the woman's far sleeve. 

Phil's seen worse with SHIELD. He shouldn't be rattled by what's mostly ambiguous half-shots, but he can't get the image closed fast enough, clicking multiple times and then standing abruptly, accidentally sending his chair rolling across the floor. "JARVIS, shut it down. And put those somewhere Tony won't get at them."

He's not sure who he's protecting. Tony's not an idiot, and he can probably make pretty educated guesses about what sorts of things Phil might have found. Hiding the files from Tony won't undo anything for Clint, but Phil's never put any of his charges on display for correction or humiliation, and he's not about to start now, not even at a remove. 

Phil straightens his tie, then goes to retrieve his jacket, before heading out of his apartment, where the air is suddenly oppressive, and the walls too close. He doesn't want to be anywhere near his computer, illogical as the aversion might be. It feels like a too-long walk to the elevator, followed by a too-slow ride up to the penthouse, where the light coming through the windows lets Phil know he's spent longer examining the files than he'd thought. Tony is still in his robe, wearing stolen hotel slippers and directing Bruce from across the dining table, now covered in machine parts as well as tablets and notes, some schematic floating over the fruit bowl in glowing blue, rotating to track Tony's movement as he waves his hand around.

"J said you were indisposed," Tony says, barely glancing away from his work. "So we distracted ourselves with tinkertoys." He gestures at the project, waving a stylus that he then flips to himself, flicking it off his fingertips to catch in the palm of his hand, before playing it through his fingers, and flicking it again. "You okay?"

"Fine. Where's everyone else?"

"Being responsible somewhere. Nothing's on fire, if that's what you mean. Pepper says don't talk to the press, but come on. Do I look like someone who wants to talk to _press_?"

The mood's been known to strike him, but Phil doesn't say so. Tony watches him in silence for a second, then concludes, "You found something on Clint," and taps the stylus restlessly on the edge of the table, but gently. Almost too soft to hear. On the other end of the table, Bruce finishes correcting some calculation and pauses to listen in.

"Nothing that stands out," Phil says.

"Someone onto Green Bruce?"

"No."

"Someone steal your donut holes?"

"Happy," Phil says, and smiles when Tony does, pleased at being humored.

"Then what's with the face?" Tony make a little circular motion with the stylus, like he's conducting a band, and the blue shape hovering over the table rotates, first horizontally, then vertically, as the model tries to align with the movement of Tony's wrist.

"Nothing. Don't worry about it." 

That earns him a dubious look, and Phil's sure that Bruce will notice his reluctance, which means that he _will_ worry, so he offers, "Just thinking. Unless you've heard something I haven't, nothing's changed."

Tony doesn't look convinced, but when Phil doesn't provide any further explanation, he goes back to moving around virtual screws and cables. "Do you think we should have defense drones?" Tony asks, absently. "Just, you know. Around. Just in case. Iron Drones. I can make them any color."

"I think your security will take it as a personal insult, but don't let that stop you."

Tony grins and goes back to whatever he's building. Phil's versed enough now to guess that it's some kind of power source--it has the tell-tale hoop of arc tech circling its chassis--but he's not sure what it's for, or even what the scale of the build is, and neither Bruce nor Tony seem about to fill him in. Phil watches them work for a while, then does a quick circuit of the floor, just for anxiety's' sake, before taking the elevator back down to the slave hall, where he finds Steve yelling and Clint blasting music out of the empty cubicle that mostly serves as a mini kitchen, outfitted with a fridge and a microwave and a radio that's usually turned to a news channel. Now it's blaring obnoxious pop, and Clint is shouting, "What? What?" over the noise instead of turning it down. After the images Phil's spent the last few hours looking at, it's incongruous.

It's also immediately reminiscent of Tony on overload and letting off steam, and Phil almost laughs at the idea that he'd thought he was in for a break now that the latest crisis had past.

"Turn it down," Phil orders, shouting to be heard, and Clint does, but only enough that Phil can hear him shout back,

"No."

"Clint--" Steve starts, sounding annoyed in a way that means the argument's been going on for a while, and maybe even for the whole time that Phil had been engrossed in his computer.

" _No_. It's a free fucking twelve square feet. Don't you have rounds to make? Go flash your merit badge at someone."

The room's considerably wider than that. It's also no different, legally, than any other place in the tower, but Steve subsides and just gestures like he thinks that's clarifying anything to Phil. He looks tense, and Phil doesn't blame him, considering the volume of the music, the _music_ , and what had happened the last time Clint had felt out of control. At least acting out means he's less likely to try to _act_.

"JARVIS," Phil shouts, and the radio turns down, squeaking through stations until it stops at soft classical. Clint glares. Phil tries not to react.

"Come with me."

"Why?" It's a challenge. Angry. Phil's not sure what kind of reaction Clint's trying to bait, or if he's even thought that far ahead.

"So Steve can have some peace and start healing his eardrums. Come on."

The corner of Clint's scowl twitches and he shoots a quick look at Steve. Whatever's got him in a mood, it's not actually a conflict between the two of them. Clint almost looks guilty that he'd taken whatever it was out on Steve, or at having tried to pick a fight with him, or whatever it was that Phil had walked into the middle of.

"And maybe we can talk about your musical taste."

"So we're going to listen to Steve's shitty records again? Great. Let me get my earplugs."

Steve lets that pass, and Clint doesn't move to get anything, even when Phil gestures the go-ahead, just mouthing off for the sake of it. He trails Phil to the training room grudgingly, but without further protest, then stops inside the door to consider the sitting area and then the rest of the room, glancing quickly around. Scanning the work-out equipment, then the empty space usually reserved for floor exercise, and then the tables and furnishings on the other side of the room, before he turns his attention back to Phil.

"You want me to drop my pants?" he asks, almost sincere sounding. "Sir?"

"If you think you'll be more comfortable."

Clint glares, unamused, but doesn't move as Phil makes his way across the room, to the wooden cabinet he keeps his tools in. It's not large or intimidating, and the carved, painted antique wouldn't look out of place in Pepper's office, or Tony's living room, but Clint eyes it warily, edging closer like he thinks it might detonate.

The interior of the cabinet is as pretty as the outside, with a decorative mirror set on the inside of each door and drawers with brass pulls at the bottom and under the topmost shelves. The contents are relatively sparse, but organized. Tidy with disuse. He can almost feel Clint tensing up behind him.

"Do you remember when I told you we'd go through this? Today's the day. Let's start sorting."

Clint doesn't come closer, but hauls himself up to sit on the padded table instead, so he can peer into the cabinet over Phil's shoulder. "Start sorting?"

"What did you think I meant by 'go through'? Here." He hands Clint a rag, and then pulls one of the drawers free and hands the whole thing over as well. "Wipe anything that looks like it needs it."

"You're making me _dust_?"

"If it keeps you busy. And quiet. Or you could clean up after Tony and Bruce, if you'd prefer. " 

Clint snorts, but takes the cloth and then the drawer, setting it next to him to rifling through one handed. There's nothing too intimidating in it. Phil's got tools, but he doesn't have a _collection_. There hadn't been any reason to accumulate equipment that seemed largely unnecessary, especially when the best result with Steve was a combination of suppressed offense and strained tolerance, and Bruce responded better to space and only sometimes a steadying hand, and was suspicious of nearly everything else. Clint doesn't look impressed with the options either, pulling out cuffs and a thin chain and then a strap with a buckle, with space to fasten a gag. "Nice, Coulson."

He freezes at the slip, still holding the strap, and then, when there's no reaction, carefully sets it back in the drawer. His jaw grinds a little, more in thought than out of tension. Then he amends, "Sir."

"Some of this stuff just turned up here," Phil tells him, with a gesture at the inside of the cabinet, indicating tools for laying strikes and the restraints hung inside one of the taller shelves. "People think you need things, and then there you are."

Clint nods, not challenging the explanation as he rifles through the drawer, finding a blindfold and pulling it out to consider, turning it over in his hands. Checking the strap for use, Phil thinks. Gauging the risk of having it used on him.

"If you think something is too much, we can skip it."

That gets a snort. Implanting the tracker had broken that promise already. Or maybe bringing Clint back from his attempted escape had, or even acquiring Clint in the first place. 

"If possible," Phil corrects himself.

There's another moment of suspicious consideration, and then Clint grins at him. "This is because I didn't shoot you, isn't it? You're giving me vetoes? That's fun, sir. Can I earn brownie points by making you tea, too?"

"You can try."

"Or tricks? You want to see tricks?"

Clint's original file had described him as a talented acrobat. Good enough to be sold to a show, but also good enough that a private sale would be more lucrative. A luxury item, according to the videos, worth too much to scrap out of hand, even with considerable marks against him.

"No sleeves, no illusions," Clint says, and holds up a piece of chain link, then folds it into his hand, before playing it like a coin between his fingers. It fumbles halfway through the move, then hits the floor with a series of high clinks as it bounces away somewhere. "Damn. It's been a while. Hang on."

"Leave it. Finish cleaning."

There's nothing much to clean. It's just busy work and they both know it. The tools are well maintained and in good condition. Mostly, Phil wants Clint to know what might be used on him and to have the chance to put some things off limits. To have a better lay of the land than he's had so far, in spite of Phil's efforts.

"What were you trained for?" Phil asks, moving to retrieve the dropped piece of chain himself and slipping it into a pocket. "The second time around?"

"Pretty much picked up where I left off," Clint shrugs, pulling a piece of leather out of the drawer and turning it over in his hands, examining the stitching. It's short, mostly just a tool for making distance, to reduce the intimacy of direct hand-on-skin touch. "It should be in the user's guide." 

"So what about this?" Phil asks, reaching under his jacket to pull his sidearm free of its holster, holding it out to show Clint before he walks back and sets it down on the table, beside Clint's leg.

It's an impulse. Phil hardly aware that he's made the decision to do it before the gun is in his hands, and then, dangerously, in Clint's reach, gleaming dully under the training room lights. Clint looks, but doesn't touch it, cagey again like he thinks he's being tested. 

"I had a shooting act," he says, picking at the leather strap again. "Bow and arrows. Kid stuff." He licks his lip, then adds, "Ended up being good with a gun too, it turned out. It's--"

"In the guide?"

"If this is some kind of set-up--"

Phil laughs. It's not funny, but after all the worry and relief of getting Clint off the hook, setting him up to take the same fall they'd just avoided is ridiculous. Clint looks offended at the response, then ducks his head, hiding his expression but also taking the opportunity to study the gun, eventually nudging it over and away with the strap, like it's proximity is burning him.

"If you don't want to do something," Phil tells him, "tell me and we'll try to avoid it. You want to shoot--" he picks the gun back up and gestures with it, holding the grip towards Clint before sliding the weapon back into its holster. "I've got a gun you can use."

Clint frowns. "Why?"

"Because you didn't shoot me." And because Clint's apparently been driving Steve nuts, with nowhere to direct his energy, climbing the walls and picking fights. And because Phil can't expect him to trust them without offering anything in return, and because the grainy images of Clint's helplessness are, maybe hypocritically, burned into his mind's eye, and he needs to do _something_ to counteract them, even if it's just a gesture.

"I'm not supposed to--"

"If we can keep Bruce's secret, we can probably keep a half hour on the gun range to ourselves."

"What if I want arrows instead?"

"What? The kid stuff?"

That gets him a shrug, followed by a restless bop-bop of the strap against Clint's knee. "Sure. Maybe I liked the kid stuff. Before things--I never shot anyone with a bow, so that's a point in its favor, right?"

"Fine. I'll see what I can find for you. Finish this, and get off Steve's back."

Clint grins and offers a sloppy salute with the strap, before flipping it in his hand and holding out towards Phil, offering it. "You could be setting me up to be killed," he says. "But thanks."

There's a hundred easier, more efficient ways to get rid of a slave than bothering with a set-up, but Phil doesn't point it out. Instead he leans in to tell Clint, low and serious, "Don't shoot anyone," before taking the strap out of his hand. 

"No problem," Clint says. "That turned out to be worth a lot more brownie points than I thought."


End file.
